


castle of gold

by kinpika



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blending the book and tv show canon lovingly until I find the right measurements, I don't have an explanation for this, It's 2020 and we're out here writing GOT fics huh..., Myrcella POV, What if fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22586911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: A momentary pause, broken only by the smile. Full and wide and true. “You are a funny, little one, aren’t you?” One last twirl of curls, right by her ears, before Nymeria cups her cheeks. “I am glad that you were brought to us.”Quietly, softly, there is a beat ofme too, that thrums through her.Myrcella wishes for nothing more than to keep the sun on her face.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	castle of gold

Obella laughs too loud.

Too early, too sweetly. And yet, Myrcella does not stir. Lost in the thin blankets and fine thread, there, she dreams of the open waters, the reflection on tiles. There is a peace on her face that had found home, and when Obella does not stop fast enough, crashing into the door with an almost manic grin, it still does not shift.

“Wake up! Wake _up_! They’re back!”

Instantaneous with those magic words. Where Myrcella opens an eye, fighting the sun that snuck in behind the curtains, only for them to be thrown open. No chance of letting in the slowness that came with mornings, soft incense, everything that was too honeyed and far richer than back home.

Doubly so, when there was a series of thunderous slap of feet that followed down the halls. Obella is pulling at the sheets, finding Myrcella’s hand amongst it all, outmatching her easily in strength with freeing her from it all. Around the corner, now, comes in Elia, breathless and bright.

“Can you believe it?! I never thought they’d return!”

The words are rounded thickly, and Myrcella’s ear had become far more attuned to the thicker accents, nothing like the flat sounds of King’s Landing. And, if she were to be truthful, just as she had been in the pages of books tucked below loose stones, she truly did love it more.

“Did your father not write to you earlier?” Is what she asks instead, as Obella begins rifling through the drawers and closets, throwing various dresses and silks out. Bites her tongue from telling Obella to please, stop.

Elia’s smile does not slip. “Written word means nothing.” Repeated words, no doubt, that would mean more if Myrcella was older and wiser and like her mother. But she is ten, and Elia has her hands on her hips, puffed out chest as if she had come up with that line herself. That was enough for now.

“You look like Obara,” comes the jab, Obella rolling her eyes, and pushing one last dress into Myrcella’s hands. “ _Ridiculous_.”

“Better Obara than the back of a horse’s ass!”

“And you know what that looks like, don’t you, _Lady Lance._ ”

There’s a flash of colour on Elia’s cheeks, almost matching her eyes. If on cue, Myrcella takes a wise step away from Obella, who begun to look like the cat who ate the canary. “You may be tough, Elia, but we both know that father’s last letter had you crying into the septa’s bosom.”

Like a snap, Elia is across the few feet of space, hands out. And they are not quite the practiced warriors of their sisters before them, but Myrcella admired with a certain amount of awe, how Obella raised her arms to block, a struggle to grab her elder sister. An easy scuffle, one too many elbows thrown into sides, and there is no way to intercede, call a truce.

Myrcella’s hands were too soft compared to theirs. Dorne had introduced her to so much, more than she had possibly imagined, even in all her books. Like watching two girls, only a few summers older than her, more like her family than she would yet admit, scramble on the floor. And there were no gasps, or whispers hidden behind hands. Nothing her mother had warned her about, had she looked her way.

Only the way Nymeria stands in the door, brow raised, surveying the two younger sisters. A wry smile on her lips, and delicately, she hitches up her skirts, stepping over them. “Myrcella, a blue would suit you better.”

The other two are lost, to the way Nymeria is quick and efficient. Answering the questions, she turns her eyes away as Myrcella moves behind the folding screen. “They are not much further away now, as the first ships arrived to send word. We will be at the docks as soon as you are all _ready_.”

A sharp slide, no doubt, accompanied by a look that would rival Obella and Elia’s mother. Myrcella can only peer through the delicate make of the screen, to watch how the two separate, dusting themselves off without much of a glance at each other. Orders given, with a please, thank you, to find Dorea and Loreza. No room for accomodation, with all the thunderous strength that her father before her had.

It was not the first time Myrcella had been so blindsided, by just how deeply the blood ran. Blood or bond — she does not question nor tell the difference — when such things went hand in hand. Prince Oberyn was here in this very room, with the way Nymeria’s lip curled into a smile, a slow build of light in her eyes. Even in the way hands fuss, tightening the skirts and piling hair on top, Nymeria was her father, in the way she stared through the mirror, cheek to cheek with Myrcella.

Deep swallow. Most of her time had been spent, with Elia, Obella, Dorea and Loreza. Water Gardens, with the sun on her face and all the freedom around her. Or with Trystane, navigating the world that was laid out before them. Very few days had been spent in the company of the elder daughters of the Red Viper, and with the slow release of air, Myrcella remembered why.

For the sharpness was just as enchanting as it was dangerous. “Beautiful,” Nymeria says, voice low, just the two of them. No one else in the world.

So Myrcella whispers back, after a quick and nervous lick of lips. “Lady Nymeria, you are far more beautiful.”

A momentary pause, broken only by the smile. Full and wide and true. “You are a funny, little one, aren’t you?” One last twirl of curls, right by her ears, before Nymeria cups her cheeks. “I am glad that you were brought to us.”

Quietly, softly, there is a beat of _me too_ , that thrums through her. Myrcella only offers a shaky smile in return, as Nymeria loops their arms together, away now. Something aside, about how they had wasted enough time, it wouldn’t be much longer now. Thoughts spoken aloud, to fill the gaps, of how Myrcella took two steps to her one stride.

And Myrcella indulged in it. Different from the sounds and presence of life, at King’s Landing, at Casterly Rock. Nymeria does not expect a yes or a no, and there are no looming ladies, ready to rap on the knuckles for a wrong stitch. Just the soft slaps of feet, greeting each and every person who passed by. Stopping at the edge of the stairs, pulling on sandals, before continuing downstairs.

Strange sense of calm. Everyone still holding their breath. Even in the face of Obella’s enthusiasm and Nymeria’s carefully worded promises, with the bannermen arriving only days before, they wait. “Are we certain they are here?” Myrcella finds herself asking, as there is yet another pinched look passed by.

“A smaller ship arrived this morning saying that there was only a few hours between. By the time we arrive to the port, it would not be much further away.”

She does not push. Not in the face of Nymeria almost, _almost_ , letting the expression falter. It was a wonder that she did not let herself go, embrace the relief and the stress. Myrcella does not envy her, when they greet the sight of Obara and Tyene. Two sides of a similar coin, with Nymeria being the perfect middle.

At least, that was how Elia and Obella had described the elder three, under the cover of night. Whispers lost to giggles, and the closing in of _sleep, now, please!_

“Ready to leave?” No room for pleasantries, just a sweep of hand, towards the horses that lay ahead.

Offers of hands, to assist with sitting in the saddle. Not even a spare look her way, as Myrcella rearranges herself. Strange to think, only a couple of years prior, she had only been allowed to travel by carriage, or even palanquin. And now?

“Are we all leaving?”

Her question was only heard by those around her: Trystane, Elia, Obella. Caught up in the whinnies of the horses, as their group moves. Responding to the waves alongside the rest, mindful of how they were travelling.

“Arianne will stay here with Tyene.” There is a glitter to Elia’s eye, that spoke of mischief and gossip. “Apparently our uncle said something to _upset_ her.” And the words are pointed, sharp, remnant of more than one particular shift of mood.

With those words, Trystane’s cheeks colour. “Surely not,” is what he says in protest, but his heart was not in it. “She’s just busy, I’m—”

“You’re a better cyvasse player than you are a liar, Trystane.”

A fiery red, that burns all the way up his ears. Myrcella reaches over then, patting the back of his hand lightly, gently, quickly. “It would be strange for all of us to leave the Old Palace, after all.”

Perhaps he was grateful, with the smile he offered. Yet Trystane encourages his steed forward, passing between Obella and Elia with ease, to join Obara and Nymeria ahead. In response, Elia only laughs as Obella pokes out her tongue.

Myrcella’s turn to. Smile. Breathe. See how the tight lines were being washed away, and they were fourteen and twelve and ten. Laughter and bright, weaving between the streets of Sunspear, without so much as a worry as to what was around the corner. For in that moment it did not matter, as she holds the reins in her hands, and watches how Elia and Obella bring their horses to trot and weave.

Voices carry. Not much further now. Straightens her back in the saddle, as they descend just a little steeper. It felt like no time had passed at all, except there was more than just their group waiting by the docks. Spread of the usual markets, with more than one fruit Myrcella had been introduced to since she first set foot in Dorne, but all eyes were turned towards the sea. Clear, open, not a concern in sight.

Superstition would tell her to be concerned. Yet Trystane extended his hand, helping her down, and she felt. Light? Even in the small collection of dust that was kicked up, hands that smooth, tuck, fix, Myrcella felt no threat, no concern. One hand in Trystane’s own, as they walk closer to where the ship would arrive. Underneath all the colours, moving in the wind. Great sheets of vivid reds and yellows, throwing shade to those who wandered below.

Looking up, Myrcella could catch the way the sun shone through the sigil, darkened sun and spear. Was it wrong of her, to consider that a more welcoming sight, than the lions and stags of home? She was given no chance to ask, to confide in Trystane beside her. Not when clamour grew, from whispers to shouts, hands pointing out over the sea.

It would be a lie, to say that a pit did not form in her stomach. Sun catching gold, and Myrcella did not have to imagine any further than that. Fingers flex, and she hears Trystane, how he asks if she as okay, as Obella turns to her then. Sound drowning out. Oh no, is all she can think. They had returned for her.

Voice cracking, as she whispers, “I’m fine.” Repeats it, until her knees grew weak, and they can blame the sun and the heat, just as much as they could blame the clamminess of her hands.

But Myrcella does not fall. Shallow breathes, until the gold grew closer. Closer, _closer_. There had been word and stories, passed through the walls of Sunspear. Joffrey had died at his own wedding. Tommen had succeeded him. And Myrcella lived, so detached from that life. Almost forgetting what it was like to walk down the halls, and be afraid of what was around the corner.

And they wanted to take her back to it all.

“Obella.” Was her voice even heard, in the sudden wave of noise that hit. Slaps of water, up the sides of the ship as it drew closer. Voices clamouring over one and other, trying to grab the attention of whoever was on board. _I don’t want to go home._

One of them says something to her. Or all three. A name that echoes around in her mind, her own, shouted with a shake of her shoulders. Something about the sun, but Myrcella was too caught up in the way the sails were drawn in, how the ship came to a stop.

How everyone seemed to hold their breath, until the slipway dropped.

Roar, all at once. As Oberyn was the first one off, Ellaria at his side. Broad smiles, as their children surge forward. Trystane did not move, offering something of a grin of his own, as Obella and Elia embrace their mother. Conversations that move too fast, changing direction at a moment’s notice, when they drew near. Gold that burned in the backdrop, never out the corner of Myrcella’s eye. A gentle reminder.

Oberyn embraces his nephew, with a sweeping hug that does little to remove the pink on Trystane’s cheeks. Clap on the back, three times, before Loreza is in his arms once more, Obara stalwart by his side. Eyes on her now, as she lowers herself into a deep curtsey. Eyes low, if only to keep the worries at bay.

“Myrcella, you look as lovely as the day we had left.” Words that were warmed with the tone reserved for his daughters, enough of a cause to flick her eyes up. Whilst Oberyn does not reach for her, he does extend a hand. “A gift, from you mother. For your name day.”

So the great ship was a reminder. “Thank you for returning it safely.” Careful and practiced words, her accent the light dip from King’s Landing, compared to their roll. Slowly adopting the words, and how they would sound on her tongue, however the ship stood as a reminder.

She was a ward, and a yet to be seen wife. Trickles of cold down her back, as she takes in the carved wood, the tall masts. Everything that she might’ve once loved, over there, on the other side of the pass. Was it selfish of her, to say she didn’t want it? Myrcella finds herself looking up, chewing over those words.

Meets their eye, finds the tightness. How their smiles just don’t quite reach. Ellaria holds her daughters just a fraction too close, and Oberyn was tired in ways she hadn’t thought possible. Like whatever spirits they had left with had been sucked away, lost to the capital. Perhaps they had faced demons — none of which either had seen before — and had been careless to believe that it was possible to come back unscathed.

Life marches on. Orders given, and Myrcella returns to horseback without protest. Fingers that find the ends of the braids, untangling them while they waited. All far too anxious and excited. Myrcella couldn’t recall the last time she had seen them like this, and wanted to let herself in. To embrace the warmth that came with the return of a father and mother, loved so deeply, that Sunspear had held its breath for weeks on end, awaiting them.

As they ready to leave, Oberyn draws close. Gentle pats against the steed, no rush at all. Even as he squints, careful studying of her face, Myrcella felt. What did she feel? No word to answer. Just Oberyn’s voice. “The last wedding I had attended in King’s Landing was for my sister. I have not been there since.”

Now his tone grew heavy, and he swallowed thickly. Downturned eyes, unsure of what was yet to come. “I knew of monsters in the walls, and experiencing them with my own eyes… it is something I do not know how to describe.”

“You bested the Mountain,” Myrcella murmurs. Gooseflesh that raises at the name, and how Oberyn’s eyes narrow and harden.

“Perhaps. Or, even in death, he still bested me.” A sentence that is trimmed, neatly, with no end. Shift of feet, to move on, and leave that thought in the sand and sea. “I am sorry that you grew up in such a place. No child deserves that burden.”

Myrcella cannot be distracted by the way he kicks a toe at the sand. “I—” Start. Stop. Suck in a sharp breath, and repeat _thank you_ once more. Polite and even. Even as her fingers unravel the perfect little braids, trying to distract herself. “You are too kind, Prince Oberyn… for everything.”

And I’m sorry, too, is what she wants to say. To be older and wiser and play the game. With words and clever remarks, to dance around what ifs and could have beens. All those times, watching those around her speak in rhythm and rhyme. But she was just a little girl, and Oberyn smiles like her father should have.

“It was nothing. Come, let us return and hope my dear brother has prepared us a feast, hm? Ellaria suggested returning with fruit from Highgarden, but I am not so sure it survived the waters.” Laughter that does not wash away the lines and the silver that now coloured his hair. Only a small smile in return.

In Oberyn’s place, do Elia and Obella return. Smiles and careless whispers of asking what, what had he said? What had their father not yet shared? Suggestions and teases and Myrcella pushes on, following the crowd. Letting the complaints dwindle to nothing more than the rise of songs.

Coupled with one last look over her shoulder. As they travelled up that hill, the gold grew to nothing but a memory in the distance. Anxiety that did not abate, if only barely settled, as Myrcella finally went around the corner. Gone, gone like she had been, hurried away from home. It’s then, she realises, she didn’t hold much love for the open water anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ stay winning folks oberyn lives and topples westeros


End file.
